In the quiet town of Kilonzi, where nights came early and mornings smelled of rain-soaked dust, there lived a man named Baraka who spoke to shadows.
At least, that’s what people said.
He lived alone at the edge of town in a house that had once belonged to the railway station master, long abandoned when the trains stopped coming. Children whispered that if you passed by at dusk, you could hear him murmuring to the walls — and that the walls murmured back.
Baraka was not old, not young. His eyes had the color of burnt wood, and his voice was the kind that made you listen even when he said nothing. He fixed lanterns and radios for a living,...
Comments